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quickeningheart · 4 years

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Twenty-Two

Stoker was seriously contemplating building himself a new hideout. While the laboratory he kept well-hidden in the wilderness was large and well-stocked with equipment and supplies, it was becoming more and more difficult to come and go as he pleased without detection. He'd done his best to keep his whereabouts a secret, but Limburger was definitely onto him, if the amount of hired thugs constantly sent out to tail him was any indication. The goons might not have been particularly intelligent, but they were annoyingly persistent; Stoker knew that one of these days he was gonna slip up and lead someone right to his lab, and then everything he'd spent the last ten earth years trying to achieve would be sent straight down the proverbial crapper.

Even the thought of all the work it would require to set up a new workshop was exhausting, but he couldn't risk his project by staying where he was, and he didn't want to move house to one of his other, smaller hideaways scattered across the country. Moving farther from Chicago—and therefore from his comrades—just didn't sit well with him.

Which was why he found himself cruising down the ruined streets of the large warehouse district not far from Charley's garage. What had once been thriving industrial businesses were now nothing but empty husks of their former glory, ranging from mildly dilapidated to completely demolished. Not even the street gangs and city lowlifes bothered much with the abandoned neighborhood anymore; there wasn't any point as there was no longer anyone left to terrorize. Now they tended to hang out in other areas, living it up in the massive chasms edging the outskirts of Chicago.

The result of Limburger's past handiwork, the Pits had become home to every sort of human criminal in Illinois over the past few years. Everyone knew it, including the police. Yet, for some reason, they never seemed to have enough of a reason to go in and raid the place. Stoker was certain that was the result of Limburger's handiwork, as well. He'd bribed the law enforcement and government officials to leave the Pits alone; in exchange, the Pit Boss left Limburger's extensive enterprise alone, and provided all the hired muscle needed to do his dirty work. It was a very beneficial business arrangement all around.

While that knowledge really ground Stoker's gears, right now it worked well to his benefit. Nobody bothered with this district—including Limburger—which meant he had free access to the empty warehouses. And on the off-chance that anyone should get a little too nosy, they could easily be taken care of; after facing down squadrons of Plutarkian soldiers, a few stray punks were hardly any threat. He'd become an expert at setting alarms and traps. If Limburger sent more goons to trail him, they'd be in for some nasty shocks. He couldn't do much in the way of self-defense in the middle of the wilderness, but abandoned factories full of potentially hazardous junk was a different matter altogether.

With a little planning and a lot of fortification, Stoker was sure he could rig up a decent laboratory to continue his work while he was on earth. A little careful rerouting would give him ample power needed to run his diagnostics, and he'd be right on the home turf, ready to lend a hand should the rookies need it. As much as it aggravated him to admit it, those hours-long rides between the city and his lab were really starting to wear on his body. It would be a nice change to not have his muscles and bones constantly aching from the strain.

A sharp beep snapped him out of his inner musings, and he nearly lost control of his bike when it made a sudden veer to the left, narrowly missing the lone figure trudging down the middle of the street, who yelped with fright and scrambled out of the way. "Watch where you're going!" she screeched, and Stoker's eyes widened when he immediately recognized Alley's voice. He slammed on the brakes and made a sharp turn, coasting back her way. What was she doing, wandering these streets all by herself? True, he hadn't seen so much as a stray cat in the general vicinity, but still. She had to know that walking alone wasn't safe! Had something happened to her? Again? He chuckled and shook his head. That woman was a walking trouble magnet, and if he had any sense, he'd keep his distance.

Too bad his sense always seemed to shrivel up and die whenever those gorgeous blue eyes turned his way.

He pulled to a stop beside her, opening his visor to turn on the charm … and it was then that the distinct odor of Plutarkian hit him full in the face.

He reared back with surprise and mild alarm; a soft whufff escaped before he could catch himself, and Alley scowled at him, not missing the flash of disgust that wrinkled his sensitive nose. She started to walk on, but he didn't give her a chance. He was off his bike in a second and blocking her path, frowning down at her. "What happened?" he asked, concern sharpening his tone.

"Nothing," she snapped, her scowl deepening. He felt her defenses go up, preparing for a fight, and bit back a sigh. As much as their bantering amused him, she could be downright exasperating when she set her mind to it. And while he knew she had every right to be a little peeved at him for his behavior the night before, right now it was time to let bygones be bygones. He wasn't about to let her clam up on this subject. Not when her safety was at risk.

"Nothing?" he repeated, one eyebrow raising. "I can smell Plutarkian all over you."

"Then feel free to take yourself upwind." She attempted to step around him. Again, he blocked her path, and she glowered. "I'm fine," she insisted. "Get out of the way!"

Stoker exhaled a deep sigh and tried for patience, resting his hands on her slim shoulders. "Alley," he began gently, and a startled expression crossed her face at the rare use of her name. "If Limburger did anything to you, hurt you in any way, you need to tell me. Please."

Her brow furrowed and she glanced around nervously; it occurred to him that she never seemed to know how to respond when he was being serious with her, filing that information away for later consideration. "Did Limburger lay hands on you?" he pressed, and she winced when his fingers inadvertently tightened at the thought. He immediately gentled his grip, rubbing her shoulders briefly in apology.

"He didn't touch me," she finally mumbled. "He just … caught me by surprise, and one of his guys came up behind me and forced me into his car."

"Why didn't you fight back?" he asked, offering a wry grin. "You've got a hell of a right hook."

"Yeah, well, wouldn't do much good against the gun in my back."

A low growl erupted deep in his throat, making her eyes widen. He forced himself to calm down. "What happened next?"

"That's nobody's business but mine." She tried to ease away, but he maintained a steady grip on her shoulders and gazed patiently down at her. When she stubbornly refused to talk, he sighed deeply and nodded toward his bike. "Hop on. I'll give you a lift back."

"There's nothing wrong with my legs."

"Just do an old soldier a favor and get on. Your cousin would skin me alive and use my pelt as a coat if she found out I'd let you walk through this neighborhood by yourself."

"Fine." She huffed a sigh and stomped to the bike, started to swing a leg over the seat, only to stumble when the machine rolled smoothly forward. She eyeballed it cautiously and tried again … with the exact same result. She nearly fell that time, Stoker's quick reflexes the only thing keeping her from a pair of scraped knees.

"Stop that," he scolded, scowling and giving the rear wheel a light kick. "What's got into you?" He was answered with a series of sharp beeps.

"Your pet doesn't seem to like me," Alley muttered, backing away.

"Hmm. Maybe 'cause you clocked me?" He winked. "She's kind've protective of me."

"You deserved that and you know it!" she snapped.

He sighed and scratched his head. "Yeah, I sorta did," he admitted with a sheepish grin. "Stuck my foot where it didn't belong, I guess."

"Yeah. Straight up your—" Alley broke off with a yelp when the bike suddenly rolled backward, the rear tire missing her foot by mere inches. "Okay, that's it." She turned to stomp away. "No way in hell are you gettin' me onto that homicidal machine! I've seen too many movies with these scenarios and they never end well."

"Now look what you did," Stoker scolded the bike. "Way to make an impression."

It gave a sulky grumble in reply.

"I don't wanna hear it." He waved it away. "Take yourself back to the garage and think about your actions. I'll walk." He strode after Alley, leaving the still-grumbling bike to roll off like a dejected puppy.

~*~*~*~*~

They'd only been walking a few minutes more before they caught sight of Charley racing full-tilt up the street toward them, a panicked expression on her face. He easily deduced the cause of her fright, holding out his hands in a reassuring gesture as she approached. "Relax, we're both fine," he said.

She came to a stumbling halt, bent double with hands resting on her knees for support as she gasped for breath. "You scared the crap outta me, Stoke," she scolded. "Your bike came roaring into the garage all by itself… I thought something had happened to you!"

"Nah, just keeping a pretty lady company." He jerked a thumb in Alley's direction.

Charley shot her an exasperated glance. "And do I even wanna know why you're here? I thought you were at the school."

"Long story," Alley muttered.

"She had a run-in with Limburger," Stoker supplied bluntly.

Alley pursed her lips. "Okay, not that long."

"What happened? Are you okay?" Charley started to look panicked again.

"I'm fine." Alley's shoulders slumped. "We just talked, that's all."

"After forcing her into his car at gunpoint," Stoker put in.

Alley glared. "Feel free to take yourself back to the garage," she snapped, pointing in its general direction.

"Alley Cat, come on. You know we're just trying to help," Charley coaxed, slinging an arm around her cousin's shoulder. "Just tell us about it, and maybe we can come up with a game plan."

"I wasn't supposed to let anybody know anything," Alley sighed, head drooping. "If Limburger finds out I told…"

"He'll have to go through us to get to you," Stoker growled, expression darkening. "And we won't make that easy for 'im. Trust me on that."

"It's not him getting to me that's the problem," she complained. "It's what he won't do that has me worried."

"Which is…?" Charley prompted.

Alley sighed again. "Just lemme get back and take a shower to wash this stink outta my hair. I'll fill you in on all the gory details later." At their dubious expressions, she cracked a small smile and held up four fingers. "Scout's honor."

"Alley Cat, that's still the—"

"Oh, shut up."

~*~*~*~*~

Feeling much more humane now that she could freely breathe without the lingering odor of Eu de Dead Fish in her nostrils, Alley sat down in the kitchen with the entire gang and related the story over plates of hot dogs.

When she finished talking, there was immediate uproar, with all of the mice in favor of storming the tower and blowing it up again. Alley panicked at that. "I knew I shouldn't have said anything! You macho lunkheads are gonna ruin the whole thing and then I'll never get back into college!" she wailed.

Stoker ran a hand over his face, sighing heavily. "So, seems like this is my fault," he muttered, scowling. "Limburger got suspicious of my actions, now Alley's the one sufferin' for it."

"It ain't like you knew he was gonna target her," Throttle pointed out.

"Yeah. If we're gonna play the blame game, you might as well point fingers my way. He targeted her 'cause she's related to me," Charley added.

"Oh yeah! That's another thing." Alley glanced at her cousin, frowning. "He called me Parker. He knows my history. He deliberately dug it up for some reason."

Charley tsked. "Now, what was that supposed to accomplish?"

"Beats me. He seemed to think us not being blood related would—" Alley cut herself off, suddenly aware of four pairs of eyes fixed on her with varying levels of surprise. She raised an eyebrow at the gawping mice. "What?"

"You … ain't related?" Modo ventured, frowning.

Alley blinked at him, then glanced at Charley. "Didn't you tell them?"

"Oh. I guess it never came up. Honestly, never even occurred to me to mention it." The mechanic shrugged with a grin.

"What it?" Vinnie asked.

Alley shrugged. "I'm adopted," she replied simply, and smirked when four furry jaws dropped. "Look, it's easy. My birth dad died when I was really little, like barely two. My mom met the Davidsons when her car broke down, and she and Charley's uncle hit it off and eventually got married. That happened when I was five. Dad officially adopted me just after that and I became a Davidson, too. I mean, it's all there in public records and all, but it ain't like it's right up there for anyone to just stumble over—"

"—which means Limburger deliberately went digging around fishing for info about you," Charley finished with a frown.

"Yeah. He seemed to think I'd be willing to help him because we're not 'really cousins'." Alley quoted the air with her fingers.

"Heh. Typical Plutarkian family values," Stoker snorted. "They ain't exactly known for their loyalty to kin. Theirs is a fish-eat-fish world. Literally. Plutarkian clans are spawned in the thousands, and, well … you ever watch those nature shows? About the fish and insects that hatch and it's basically survival of the fittest from the get go?"

The women gaped at him. "You mean they actually try to eat each other?" Charley looked disgusted at the idea.

"Yep." Vinnie wrinkled his snout. "The ones who survive to adulthood are the lucky ones."

"Yeah," Modo put in. "An' it ain't no wonder they're all the baddest, meanest species in the known universe."

"They'd be somebody's lunch if they weren't," Throttle finished with a shake of his head.

"Wow. That's enough to almost make me feel sorry for them," Alley said. She was met with blank stares all around. "I said almost," she huffed, then sniggered. "Given the size of him, Limburger's probably an only child by this point."

"Ugh. And here I didn't think I could loathe the Plutarkians any more." Charley wrinkled her nose. "So, anyway, now that we know what Limburger is up to, what're we gonna do about it? He's gonna expect an answer soon. And he'll get suspicious if he doesn't get one."

"I ain't just handin' over my plans," Stoker said firmly.

"Well, nobody expects that. But I do want to know what these plans of yours are." Charley fixed him with a stern look. "They dragged my family into this mess, so fair's fair. If he's desperate enough to find out what you're up to, who's to say he'll stop with Alley? What if he decides to expand out and go after our parents as well? They have no idea what's going on over here. They'll never stand a chance!"

"He's never gone after them before," Throttle said doubtfully.

"He's never gone after my cousin before, either. Now that the idea's in his brain…"

Vinnie placed a comforting arm around Charley's shoulders. "Time to fess up, Stoke. What've you been up to down here that has you wanderin' off all the time?"

The old general sighed and sat back in his chair, considering. "No harm in telling you now, I guess," he grunted, before getting to his feet and stomping down to the garage. He returned moments later carrying a long cylinder tube, from which he pulled several rolled blueprints. He spread them over the table, using cups and plates to hold down the curling edges. The mice and Charley gathered around to examine the plans. Alley took a quick glance but quickly gave up; they were a bunch of layouts for what looked like a weapon of some sort, but the writing was all in an alien language. Judging from the growing astonishment and beginnings of delight spreading on the boys' faces, though, it seemed to be something amazing.

"Stoke! This is—" Modo couldn't finish the thought, swallowing several times. His single eye was suspiciously glassy.

"Does this mean…?" Vinnie breathed, looking awed.

"We-we're saved," Throttle murmured, shaking his head. His eyes were wide behind his specs. "Mars will be whole again." He seemed dazed.

Alley leaned in to whisper to Charley, "Is it a super laser or something?"

"No," she whispered back. "It's no weapon. I can't make sense of all of it, but it seems to be some kind of a … a conductor."

"I call it the Regenerator." Stoker glanced around the table, smiling. "It's a matter-conversion device that will hopefully restore Mars to its former glory. It can create water, food, plant life … the possibilities are endless, really. Right now, it's nothin' more than an idea and a bunch've parts and supplies I've been gathering. It requires very specific ingredients that are difficult to come by. Ironically, the most important ingredient—its power source—are tetra-hydrocarbons, found only on earth."

"So you've been out searching for them?" Charley asked.

"Yep. In the wilds. Deep in the mountains. They're rare, though. And hard to get to."

"Why all the secrecy, Coach?" Throttle asked. "We could've helped you search—"

"Negative, soldier." Stoker shook his head. "Tetra-hydrocarbons are dangerous to work with. Too much exposure can lead to nasty results. Mutation of cells and other such pleasant experiences. Not only that, I didn't want to get anyone's hopes up too high, in case it's a failure." He ran a hand through his hair and shrugged. "I can't make promises that it'll even work. But I had to try."

Charley placed her hands on Stoker's shoulder and squeezed. "Stoker, in all this time I've known you, you've never let us down. When you say you'll do something, you always do it and succeed. Mars has faith in you. You will definitely be able to build your Regenerator and it will work."

"No pressure!" Alley chirped, smiling innocently at her cousin's exasperated glance.

"We definitely can't let the stinkfish get their greasy hands on those plans," Modo rumbled, frowning. "It'd be disastrous."

"Well, couldn't it be a good thing?"

All eyes turned to Alley, who squirmed under the sudden scrutiny. "Look, hear me out. I mean, this Regenerator is supposed to build stuff, right? Like natural resources?" She waved a hand. "Say it does work. So, the Plutarkians attack other planets 'cause they're on the endless quest for stuff for their planet. But if they had a machine that made endless resources, they wouldn't have to go out hunting down and stealing everyone else's! They could all go home and waste resources to their hearts' content and leave the rest of the universe alone. Happy endings all around! Yay!"

Vinnie's jaw dropped. "Say, that ain't a bad idea!"

"It does seem pretty logical," Modo agreed, rubbing his chin thoughtfully.

"Nope, wouldn't work," Throttle grunted, earning a frown from Alley. "The stinkfish are fighters by nature. They're born straight into it and it's all they know. If Stoke's right and you can build anything with this machine, what's to stop 'em from makin' bigger, better weapons and ships and findin' some other reason to attack planets?"

"Have to agree," Stoker added. "Aside from that, tetra-hydrocarbons aren't limitless. Their power would eventually run down, and as it's something the Regenerator can't recreate, earth would always be a prime target for Plutarkians. They'd tear this planet apart looking for new replenishment."

Alley sighed and Charley patted her shoulder. "It was a good idea, though. Smart thinking," she encouraged.

"It was, actually." Stoker rubbed his chin, eyes narrowed in thought as he stared down at the blueprints. "It might actually hold a bit of merit."

"Uh-oh." Charley raised an eyebrow. "I recognize that look. What are you thinkin' now?"

"I'm thinkin' I can recognize a good opportunity when I see one." Stoker glanced up, a sly grin curling his mouth. "Ladies and gents, I think it's time we set up a little trap of our own."

#bmfm fanfiction #BMFM #biker mice from mars #ocs #Charley #Stoker #the trio #what has Stoker been up to?

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whifferdills · 5 years

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Asclepius Good Omens TV, Aziraphale/Crowley, Gabriel is there. the Garden of Eden/aka Dr Who Cerulean AU. technically gen but also horny, u know how it is. ~1.8k words

read on the AO3

One of these days there would be words invented to describe this emotion, chief among them 'anxious', but for now Aziraphale settled on feeling slightly out of sorts. "It's an honor," Gabriel insisted. "I cannot stress enough how important of a job this is." "Job," Aziraphale repeated uncertainly. Uncertainty, how...unbefitting, for an Angel. He hoped it didn't show.

A window cracked open between them: the Garden, in miniature, verdant and lush. The sands outside. Gabriel gestured. "Take your time," he said, somewhat impatiently. "And when it's over?" Aziraphale tucked his wings close together. The flush of him knitted inexpertly down; a plain tunic as cover. "Easy-peasy." Gabriel grinned with at least five of his mouths, wheels spinning in cold precision. "Just make like a tree and leaf."

It's simple, ish. Certainly fewer moving parts than other forms. How difficult could it be, really, to be a tree. He settles into his roots and wraps himself in bark. Solid, unyielding. An appropriate amount of leaves shaken out and left to bask in the harsh sunlight. He makes shade in which things might grow; where fledgling humanity might take a nap, or stare blankly into space. He waits. Sometimes humanity sits, and sometimes humanity stands. Sometimes they walk in circles, or accidentally bump into each other. He basks in his love for them; he even finds things to admire about them. Their physicality, their simplicity, how they seem assured of the ground beneath their feet. The grace of them, pure and uncomplicated. The underbrush rustles, sometimes. He can't tell how far into the day it's been before he catches a glimpse of eyes, glowing reflective in the dark. Nor how long after that it is before the creature emerges, slithering languidly towards him. Black and red and almost imposing. Intelligent, possibly. The Serpent manages to look as bored as Aziraphale feels. Boredom, surely that's not right - this is a very important job, after all. He settles back into his roots and waits. Humanity isn't afraid, not yet. The Serpent wriggles past where they're sprawled carelessly on the moss, undulating over them and. On to him. Oh. Well. He's not bored anymore, at least. The thing is - the thing is. He's never been touched before, you see. Not knowingly, not with intent. The smoothness of the scales sliding over his trunk, the pressure of lean muscle curling around his branches - there is no breeze but his leaves shudder anyway, growing a touch greener, a hair broader. And the Serpent pauses, and looks up at him inquisitively. "You've forgotten the apple," it says. Oh. Oh! Of course. Aziraphale concentrates very hard, and stretches all of his Angelic energy throughout himself, from root-end to leaf-tip, and with a proverbial grunt produces a single, dismal crabapple. "You've got to be fucking kidding me," says the Serpent.

This will be known as "panic", later on - Aziraphale flicks the Serpent off (it bounces into the wilderness with a yelp) and slips first into ephemerality and then into his practiced Earthly form and then runs. Not particularly swiftly or gracefully, but with some urgency. He runs and he runs and then he stumbles, tilted headfirst until he hits the wall. The stone is hot and unforgiving against his palms, the air is too still, this body is too small - "Stay away," he calls out, voice unacceptably shaky. He turns, swallows, puffs his wings out and produces the Sword with a barely-earned flourish. The Serpent slips out of a thorn bush, unperturbed. "I have a sword," Aziraphale says. "I can see that," the Serpent responds. "Oh, for Hell's sake - " It rears up, and slips easily into personhood. Demonhood. Human-shaped, anyway, not that there's much to go on as of yet. "S'everthing alright?" Aziraphale does his best to look impressive. "Stand back, foul Demon." He has the temerity to laugh. "Oh, come off it. We're both here for the same reason. We're basically co-workers. You do the tree, I do the snake, the humans do the You Know, we go our separate ways. It's not that deep." "Not that -" Aziraphale huffs, but lowers his sword. Stage-whispering: "This is where it starts! This is God's Plan!"

"If that helps," says the demon.

"It's her Ineffable Plan and I am being Counted On and. And I'm not - I'm not doing a very good job of it, am I?" The demon, this creature - it is unfair how pretty a monster can be, he'll write a sternly-worded letter one of these days - this red and black and temptingly beautiful boy steps forward. Charming, tentative, tentatively charming and vice-versa. "Performance anxiety, happens to the best of us. I'm Crawley, by the way." "Aziraphale," says Aziraphale reluctantly, his own name sounding odd in these ears. He slips the Sword back into his pocket. He hadn't really meant to use it, anyway. How could he? Here, of all places, how could he? "Aziraphale," Crawley repeats, and it sounds even stranger - but that's a demon's voice for you. "Shall we try again? You can pop back whenever you're ready. Promise I won't look." Aziraphale glares, and Crawley dramatically covers his eyes with his hands, and they try again.

The humans are asleep, as they usually are, as there's nothing much else for them to do. Crawley sits on the ground, sifting thorns out of his coal-black feathers and burrs from his fire-red hair, gangly-legged and comfortable in Aziraphale's shade. "I can draw you a picture, if you like." Crawley adds a petal of something pink to the small pile of thorns. "You're looking for round, red, juicy - " Aziraphale is silent and settled back in his roots, but the thrum of exasperation is deliberate and hopefully clearly felt. "An Angel, inventing an Earthly pleasure from whole cloth, so a demon can tempt God's own creation into...what, exactly?" Another petal, this time white. "Are you sure your side knows what it's doing?" He waves his hand over the pile of petals and burrs and thorns and it sinks into the dirt. The roots of the Tree stretch beneath him in response. He puts his hand on the base of the trunk, the bark rough under his fingertips, and under that a clumsy, boundless love. White-hot and holy and like a sword being plunged through him. He clenches his fist and then shifts, the snake rising in his place. The humans stir, move together guilelessly. The smaller one is watching him. He slides up, wraps around the boughs. Bends the branches, curling closer to where green is budding, where fruit is swelling, ripening, reddening. She's still watching him. She's almost curious. Nearly, nearly. It won't happen now, but soon enough. He opens his mouth and sinks his fangs into an apple, listening to the leaves chatter above him.

"You're getting better at this, Angel." Aziraphale stifles a smile. It's not that he's proud, of course; it's not that he's weak to the flattery of a demon. "Oh. Thank you, I suppose. You're - quite wily. Very good at the evil... wiles." "Still needs work, though," Crawley continues blithely. "Something's missing. A certain je ne sais quoi. Can angels eat?"

"We don't need to, no." Aziraphale frowns, feeling wrong-footed and slightly ruffled in the feathers. Crawley slips to Serpent long enough to writhe up Aziraphale's calf, along his thigh and around his belly before dropping Back with a snap of the fingers and the whip of wings spreading wide. "It's not about need, Angel. Haven't you been paying attention? It's about want." He somehow manages to saunter backwards, the thicket parting for him. Aziraphale stands very still and watches him go. "Are you trying to tempt me?" "Is it working?" A pause, a consideration. Aziraphale follows wordlessly, the path closing behind them.

Paradise, down by the river. An angel tiptoes in a demon's footsteps, across the water and through the mud and the tangled vines. "Is it evil?" Aziraphale approaches cautiously, primly. "It's a blackberry bush," Crawley says. "Yes, I made it, so technically...Not everything is - nevermind. Just. Try?" "Are you teaching me how to be tempting? Or tempted? Or - " "Yes! No! Does it matter?" Crawley sighs, runs his hands through his unnecessarily luxurious hair. "One way or another we need to get through this, and I don't know about your side, but mine is getting just a smidge impatient." He plucks a berry from the bush and cups it gently, a strange and not particularly demonic energy buzzing around him. Aziraphale frowns, lips pursed. He reaches out gingerly, takes the offering from Crawley's outstretched hand. Their skin almost touches; Crawley almost flinches. He considers the fruit, and considers how it sits differently in his own hand, in the flushed rose-gold plumpness his form is aching towards. Might as well, he supposes. He shrugs, and grins, and pops the blackberry into his mouth. Takes the time to savor, to, well, enjoy. Bright, sweet, Earth-y, more-ish. He grins again, lips and teeth stained purple. "I do hope," Crawley says in a discomfitingly private voice, "that this time Upstairs has sent someone who understands that if humanity's Fall is to be chosen by them then the mechanism ought to be desirable." Flicking his gaze between the bush and the demon, Aziraphale opens his mouth to say something, he hasn't decided what yet, and then the sky catches fire.

Bye, Crawley thinks as he drops back into the undergrowth. Not worth it. Bye-bye.

"HOW'S IT GOING, CHAMP?" Gabriel screams from on high. His wheels are distinctly lilac in hue, his swords shimmering and sharpened for war. The window looks enormous from down here. Aziraphale starts, steps in front of his very first breakfast and an adorably teeny snake with what might be guilt, if guilt exists before it's been properly invented. "Um, ah, that is to say - " "WE WERE JUST HOPING TO MEET THE PROJECTIONS FOR THIS QUARTER, KINDA BANKIN' ON YOU SEALING THE DEAL HERE." "Yes, well - "

The wheels align and stop with a mighty, heavenly clang. "GREAT! WE'LL BE IN TOUCH! GOOD LUCK! BREAK A LEG! HA HA!" Gabriel stares down unblinking as the window crackles and drifts back into the aether.

Aziraphale settles into his roots and lets his branches grow, his boughs sway. God's love and her Word in the sunlight, in the shade beneath him. The human is watching, again. Earth on the verge. This is important, this is how it starts. Almost time, now, to leave the Garden. Crawley grins, pulling thorns from his hair, before he shifts. The Tree bends beneath him - he moves to where the green is budding, where the apple is growing, round and red. He sinks his teeth through the skin of it, into the flesh. Juice on his chin and leaves moving in the still air. "Knew you had it in you," he says. He leans in, pushes the apple low enough to pluck. He beckons; they wait. Humanity will come when she's ready. And after, well. They'll burn that bridge when they come to it.

#good omens #fanfic #aziraphale/crowley #do people even search tumblr anymore #*waves into the void*#i have listened to Retrograde by James Blake at least ten times tonight #official original content tag

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